


Hindsight

by olivemartini



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Guilt, Hurt, Other, PTSD, Post Deathly Hallows, after the war, idk what else to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4431731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no good guys in war.<br/>There are no bad guys, either.<br/>This is something that not many people have figured out.  But Draco has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda wrote this really fast, so sorry if it sucks.

There are no good guys in war.

There are no bad guys, either.

This is something that not many people have seemed to figure out.

Draco Malfoy, however, knew this with a certainty that he rarely felt about anything.  War was a mess, a tangled mess that both brought people closer and forced them apart, that allowed the heroes to rise, and the cowards to fall. (Besides Voldemort, and possibly Bellatrix, there wasn't anyone necessary _bad_.  They were just cowards looking to feel strong.)  The brave will stand together and fight for the ones who could not. War shows everyone exactly how fragile their world truly is. 

He was not a hero.  But he was not a villain.  He was only a boy, being brought up to believe things he thought were undeniable truths.  By the time he figured out that those truths were misguided, understood what awful things he and his family stood for, it was too late. 

He remembered the awful moment of clarity, where the blood in his veins turned to ice and his stomach turned to lead.  He had been proud, so damn _proud_ , to wear that mark on his arm.  He wanted to climb onto the rooftop and shout it to the world, tell everyone that finally, finally, he was going to show the whole world that he was someone to be feared, to be admired, to be loved.  He would show that Potter, and Weasley, and that know it all Granger.  Draco would be the one to put those nasty mudbloods into their place, yes he would.

Except it is one thing to act as if muggles are nothing but stupid cows, and quite another to drag one by the hair to the middle of his living room and murder her right there on the marble floor. 

It was too late to back out.  So he stayed beside his family, as that one girl turned to two, then five, then twenty.  He stayed even as he was forced to let death eaters into Hogwarts, as he was ordered to kill Dumbledore.  He stayed despite the sick feeling in his stomach and the voice in his head screaming at him to stop.  He stayed, despite the path of destruction and despair trailing behind him growing.  He did things that were unforgiveable, unforgettable.

There are shadows that haunt him.  Memories that chase after him, snarling and snapping at his heels as he tries to escape them by drowning in bottles and hiding in piles of pills.  He wakes up screaming every night, heart pounding in his chest, forced to relive some horrible nightmare over and over.  (It's even worse, though, to wake up and realize that he'd rather live in the nightmare.)

He sees things, over and over again.  He feels the weight of guilt crushing in on him, making him wish he could just go to sleep one day and never make up.  He tried to run way, disappearing into the muggle world, but the faces followed him.

They play in his head, over and over.

George Weasley, who Draco used to think he was so much better than, clutching his brother and sobbing.

Hermione Granger crying in fourth year because he hit her with a curse that made her teeth look like a beavers, and that image morphing to her on the marble floor of his house, jerking and twitching as his aunt cruciod her over and over.  ( _And her eyes, oh god, don't think of her eyes seeking him out and sparkling with tears, her mouth forming the word please in between the screams, until the pain got so bad even that wasn't worth the effort.)_

Lavendar Brown, telling him that he wasn't as bad as everyone said, kissing him in an abandoned classroom after she broke up with Weasley.  And then her, lying on the floor of the great hall, still bleeding from the way that Greyback tore into her.  ( _Don't think about how her hand looked the same, that same hand that gripped his and told him that he was meant for things better than his father, that he was good.)_

Seamus Finnegan, who used to blow up something every other day in charms class, rushing towards him with his clothes singed from fire, murder written on his face. 

That little first year who couldn't find it in her to crucio the bunny rabbit that was placed in front of her, and put under the spell herself.  _(Don't dwell on the way she screamed, the sound rebounding off the walls.  Don't remember the way she clutched to his arm as he carried her up to the hospital wing, uncertain if she would be able to walk on her own again.)_

Goyle, laughing at some stupid comment Draco had made, who had burned to a crisp in the room of requirement.  _(His fault.)_

Draco couldn't forget any of them.  He couldn't forget any scream he heard, any wail of despair that came from a mother's mouth as she came to the castle to find that he child was dead.  He couldn't forget the blank stares, the accusing glares coming from the faces of the dead.  He couldn't forget the hatred from his former classmates, the disgust from his former friends.  He had no idea how he had crossed the line from being an arrogant little nothing to the boy that helped kill his friends. 

He belonged in Azkaban, but Harry got him out of trouble.  Of course, saving his life wasn't enough for the boy.  So Draco disappeared.

He hadn't learned how to deal with what he had done.  He hadn't learned to live with the guilt, to forgive himself or his parents for letting him do what he did.  He hadn't learned to go back and face what he had done.  He did learn a few things.

War didn't make sense.

War didn't have clear cut sides.  Traitors cropped up everywhere, heroes formed from the most unlikely people.  The ones you looked up to tucked tail and ran instead of standing tall.  Things don't turn out like you planned.

War isn't black and white, like people will tell you.

The only color that belongs with was is red.


End file.
